


Drabbles: general fiction (LOTR 2003)

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-19
Updated: 2010-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of general fiction drabbles written in 2003.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drabbles: general fiction (LOTR 2003)

“Don’t you recognize your Sam?” Tears of deep hurt tracked through the dirt on Sam’s cheeks.

Frodo collapsed against the broken stones, exhausted and full of self-hatred, letting Sting fall with a clatter. A sharp throb in his wrist reminded him of the fall down the stone steps they had just taken.  
As Sam helped him to his feet, Frodo cradled his wrist, tears of pain blurring his vision. Captain Faramir, moved by Sam’s words, came to them, and Frodo looked up, surprised by the warmth in the Man’s face.

“Allow me to bind it,” Faramir said, kneeling beside him.

* * *

"Keep him warm," Aragorn said, his voice holding the slightest tremble of worry. They were just outside Lorien, pursued by enemies.

"This is my fault," Boromir said, tears filling his eyes that he had unintentionally hurt the gentle Ringbearer. "I did not see him."

Frodo shook under the blankets. He had treaded after Boromir, hoping to help gather firewood. In the dark, Boromir had mistaken him for Gollum and he had grabbed the halfling, wrenching the delicate arm back until it had snapped. Only after he had heard the hobbit's cry had he realized his mistake.

"Please forgive me, Frodo."

* * *

Frodo lay on the hard cot, aching to get comfortable, but he knew that if he shifted too fast, the broken cot would collapse, spilling him to the floor.

A pain clenched his belly, ripping through him. He bit his lip until it dripped blood, determined not to cry out. If he did, the guard might come and beat him. The guard Kelt was on duty, and he was meanest of the bunch. Nothing gave him more pleasure than watching the delicate halfling, the fallen gentlehobbit from the Shire, suffer.

He could not remember when they threw him into jail.

* * *

Frodo trotted down the airy corridor – such a sweet breeze had Rivendell! – thinking only of finding Bilbo and sharing afternoon tea with him. He rounded a corner and slammed into something unyielding, which knocked him on his backside with cruel force.

"Oh…oh, no," a deep voice said. A kind-faced Man with hazel eyes hovered over him and helped him to his feet. "Are you hurt?"

"I am all right," Frodo said in a daze.

"I had heard there were halflings here in Rivendell, though I did not want to meet one by doing him harm."

"No harm done," Frodo smiled.

* * *

"We will rest here tonight." Aragorn's eyes flickered nervously around the glade. He thrusting his torch in all directions before handing it to Merry. He heaved Frodo from his shoulder and set him gently on the ground, bidding Merry to hold the torch over him.

Frodo's skin was ghastly pale, sweat-drenched, and his eyes blood-shot and haunted. Aragorn grimly unbuttoned vest and shirt, revealing the wound with its jagged, infected streaks running toward the hobbit's heart.

The shirt came off, leaving Frodo to shiver violently. The cloth in Aragorn's hand was wet with freshly boiled water –- Strider still marveled at how fast Sam could move when it came to caring for his master – and the sweet smell of athelas wafted from it.

"Shhh, Frodo," Aragorn said in a low, soothing voice. Gently he ran the cloth over the hobbit's wound, causing Frodo to arch his back and yelp. "It will hurt in the beginning, but it will soon feel better."

Frodo's pained trembling began to subside, and Aragorn pushed the cloth over Frodo's bare skin. All of them could stand to be cleaner, especially one with such a wound. Frodo's breathing grew calm and steady. His eyes fell shut.

* * *

Frodo sprang to his feet, arms outstretched in fury, though how he expected to fare against these masked, armed men, he could not fathom. His back was numb from being lifted and flung. A muscular green-clothed arm swung at him and the blow caught his chest, knocking him breathless against new unyielding arms. He was pulled to his feet and an arm crossed his chest, holding him steady. Sam lay on his back, sword at his throat.

Then gray eyes in a fair face locked on Frodo, and Frodo returned the gaze. They each sought understanding or pity – and failed.

* * *

"Just lie still." Faramir's voice was husky with concern, but that failed to soothe the ache in Frodo's hot brow. The relentless march in the cold rain had taken its toll. The Rangers had shown the halfling prisoners little mercy, not even allowing decent intervals of rest.

"If you'd let us be, this wouldn't have happened!" Sam said. "That brute as had him made him walk beyond his strength."

"Master Samwise, this is the only place for me to help him."

"You made him sick." Sam squared his jaw.

Faramir met Sam's eyes. "And I will save him. I promise."

* * *

Frodo barely felt the cold stone beneath his feet, the rough chill of the cave wall under his trembling hand. Never before had a sword been held at his throat, but even that could not compare to the defilement of having the Ring pulled out against his will.

He will take it, foolish Halfling.

Cold steel nicked his skin, barely, but with cruel bite. Frodo kept his gaze on the haunted, gray eyes of his captor, but he could feel the thread-like trickle of blood run down his chest.

Faramir stared at the Ring, breath withheld, and his lips moved, though Frodo could not hear his words.

Men are weak and the world will fall.

"No!" Frodo's shout echoed through the cave and he swatted at the sword, falling back against the wall. He was now aware of burning at his throat, and his hand came away bloody.

"The Ring will go to Gondor," the stern voice broke through the mocking laughter that filled Frodo's ears, and Frodo sank to his knees.

"Anborn, fetch a clean cloth. One of the halflings is injured."

Faramir's eyes had lost that lustful gleam and now looked upon Frodo's bloody neck with deep pity.

* * *


End file.
